


Hideaway

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:19:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8826574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: To avoid conscription, Tom decides to run away. Canon to series two, episode three.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Tom didn't have to open the envelope to know what was inside. He suspected that Carson knew what was inside as well, despite the butler's nonplussed demeanor when he quickly handed off the letter.

A letter from the British Army Offices. What else could it possibly be?

Tom stuffed it in his pocket and went on with his day. He had his lunch. He worked on the Renault's engine. He drove Her Ladyship into Ripon. He picked up the Dowager Countess for dinner. He'd had dinner with the rest of the staff. He'd driven the Dowager home.

Now, as he made his way to the cottage, he knew there was no escaping the letter and the facts contained therein. He, Tom Branson, would be expected to join His Majesty's Army and sacrifice himself to defend foolish promises made by foolish men who gave no thought to the lives of the poor nameless chaps whose blood stained the fields of Europe.

Tom did not believe in war or violence. History was littered with men he admired who lived and died by the pen. Great philosophers and thinkers who had changed the course of history through the force of their reasoned arguments, not the force of their bullets. And yet he knew that not all causes could be bloodless. At this juncture, with so much of his life still left to live, Tom might have been willing to risk his hide if the cause were his own, if the cause were freedom and independence for Ireland. But this was not that fight. More to the point, this was not _his_ fight. And no matter if the king himself came after him, Tom Branson would not be compelled to engage in it.

What was conscription, after all, if not a reminder to the men of Ireland that they were not masters of their own fate. It was tyranny, plain and simple. Men of wealth could buy commissions and command other men to step in front of the oncoming fire, but such an option was not available for the working classes. Boys were told stories of the honor and glory of war, but Tom knew well that those tall tales were a manner of oppression. A way to stoke the pride of those who had nothing but pride to offer—pride and a body that could be thrown onto the path of the advancing enemy.

Tom's pride didn't need stoking. He didn't need to wear a uniform, nor be a soldier, nor bear a weapon. He didn't need to kill to feel like a man. He thought of the women who'd been passing out chicken feathers at the concert the family had organized to benefit the war effort. And he laughed at them again. There was no sense of knowing whom they thought they were helping. He felt no shame in not wanting to fight. He felt proud. Tom had no money, not enough that could save him from this fate. He was a lowly chauffeur whose protests would fade into the air before they made it to the ears of those he was most interested in hearing him. He held no power except over his own actions. He was being forced to take up arms against someone else's enemy, but he would rebel against that order. He would _not_ take up arms and in that small decision lay his own personal revolution.

Thus, even before he opened the letter, his mind was made up. He would not go.

**XXX**

Tom stiffened slightly as Sybil approached, but he did not stop what he was doing. If anything, he wiped the water on the car with more ferocity than before. He loved her. There was no denying that now, but this, alas, would be where their paths would diverge. Even as he saw the obvious concern in her demeanor, he braced himself for what he'd have to do—push her away. He would level with her. He wouldn't leave under false pretenses, but he'd have to push her away.

Sybil, for her part, did not mince words. "Carson's told Papa you've been called up."

He sighed. "There's no need to look so serious."

"You'd think me rather heartless if I didn't."

"I'm not going to fight."

"You'll have to."

"I will not. I'm going to be a conscientious objector."

"They'll put you in prison."

The catch in her voice gave him pause.

"They have to catch me first," he said.

"I don't understand."

Here he stopped, though he did not look at her directly. "I'm to report next week. I'll use the time to pack up and make a plan. I'll take my leave here, I'll go to the medical, and once I'm cleared and given my orders, I'll run away."

Sybil gasped. "But they'll have your name—they'll be watching the ports for you to return to Ireland."

Tom finally turned to look at her. "I know I can't go back there now, and I'm truly sorry for it. But I can't do it, Sybil. I won't."

He saw tears pool in her eyes.

He'd been bold to call her by her given name, but what did he have to lose now?

Tom walked over to her. He leaned in and whispered. "The king may see Ireland as his, but he doesn't own _me_. Even if I can prove that fact to no one but myself, I will do it."

"And if they catch you?" She asked, her voice breaking.

"Then, they'll send me to prison, or more likely kill me. But I'll take that death a thousand times because it's on my terms, not theirs."

"What about me? Am I just supposed to forget you, forget everything?"

Tom stepped away and picked up the rag to focus on the car again. "You started to forget me when you said no."

"I never said no. I only said don't leave."

Tom turned quickly toward her in surprise. _What did she mean by that?_

But when he stepped toward her again, she ran away.

**XXX**

After dinner that night, Tom spoke with Carson. He told the butler he'd be leaving in a week. When he left for the medical exam, he'd be leaving for good. He said he'd use the time before he had to report to see his brother in Liverpool, but he'd not be coming back to Downton. The finality of Tom's tone took Carson by surprise.

"And after the war? Will you seek to return to your post?"

Tom smiled. "I'll not tempt fate, Mr. Carson."

The butler nodded and held out his hand. "Well, thank you for your hard work, then, Mr. Branson. His lordship and the family will be sorry to see you go. As am I."

Carson was of the old guard. He'd serve and love every moment of it until his death, finding dignity in the dignity of those whom he looked after. Though Tom did not agree with the traditions to which Carson clung, Tom had learned to respect him.

Tom took Carson's offered hand and shook it. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

And that was that.

He would write to his brother tonight, then continue on with his duties for a few more days. But once he'd set foot outside this house, he'd be as good as a fugitive.

**XXX**

Tom didn't see Sybil the rest of that day. He'd been avoiding her, just as, he suspected, she was avoiding him. He knew he would regret not saying goodbye, but he wasn't sure he could face her or, in seeing her, face the possibilities of a life that he'd briefly allowed himself to dream about.

A life back in Ireland with her, he no longer working in service but as his own master, she as a nurse, and the two of them and whatever children came along all living together in a small cottage by the shores of Galway, where his own parents had grown up. He'd believed—allowed himself to believe for a brief moment—that that life might have been possible. But no more. He knew nothing of what the future would hold for him now, only that it would not be with her.

So after writing to his brother, he set out another piece of paper to write to her.

He had just set pen to paper when there was a knock on the door. He looked at the clock—it was nearly 1 o'clock in the morning—then walked to the door and opened it.

Sybil, wearing a coat and riding boots over her dressing gown, was standing outside his cottage in the pale light of the moon.

Before he could get a word out, she rushed in and started to speak quickly but calmly. "I know you will object to this, but I am going to help you. I have some money here that I'd hidden away as well as some old jewelry that I know for a fact no one will miss—"

"Sybil—"

"NO! Listen! Gwen once told me of an abandoned shed in the woods, just off the road to Moulton. It's just one room, but there's a small stove and cot there. She pointed to the path that led to it that day I took the governess cart to get her to a job interview, when the horse lost his shoe—do you remember?"

Tom looked serious, but nodded.

"She said her father took her and her brother there a few years back, told them he'd been a squatter there as a young man, before he'd found work as a farmhand on the estate. It was his way of showing them where he'd come from and from whence he'd escaped through hard work."

She paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and continued, "I don't know what state it's in, but probably good enough that you can fix it up and hide there. Take this," she said shoving the small purse full of all that she could give him, "and get as much as you can for supplies. You'll need an axe for firewood, a lamp and a kettle at least. Some books maybe. And pen and paper so you may write, perhaps, to pass the time. And food—preferably dried meat as it won't spoil. I'll find a charity to patronize in Moulton so I may travel there regularly, and we can designate a place to meet."

"Sybil, I—"

"Tom, you can't possibly believe that you can evade them on your own—without help. I can help you. Please, I must."

She stepped forward and put her hand on his cheek, their faces only inches apart.

"Why?" He asked in a soft whisper.

"Because I didn't tell you no. I only said don't leave."

"And if they catch me?"

"Then you'll have the death you want, and you'll know in those last moments that you weren't alone."

He let out a long breath, and a small smile formed on his lips, even as tears pooled in his eyes. Sybil smiled, and his response strengthened her resolve.

"But they won't catch you because we'll outsmart them, you and I. I wouldn't believe it possible for anyone else, but I know _we_ can. Together."

"When the war is over, whenever that is, they'll still look for me. I'll have to change my name, my identity."

"That doesn't matter, as long as you remain who you are to me here." Sybil put her other hand on his heart.

Tom dropped the purse onto the floor and pulled her all the way into his arms, holding her and the dreams that now seemed possible again as tightly as he could. He felt her shift in his arms and then pull back. She looked at him, with those lagoons for eyes of hers and then, standing on the tips of her toes brought her lips to his.

**XXX**

Hours later, she'd return to the house undetected. He tore up the letter to his brother and wrote another telling Kieran that he'd be gone soon and, if God permitted it, would return some day.

Days later, he'd leave the house, get his exam and be cleared for duty. Their plan set in motion.

It wasn't easy.

The police came looking for him. Sybil learned to ignore her father's commentary about cowardly men who could not stand to face their fate. Such words didn't bother her, because Tom's actions, in her eyes, were the bravest of all. He would decide how he lived, and no one else. It was a lesson she hoped she would be able to apply to her own life eventually.

It was hard when fall and winter came, but she brought blankets and thick clothes for him to wear.

He lost weight. But he didn't lose his strength, mental or physical.

He wondered whether he could go on some days, but then he'd see her, her hands full of food and books. And he'd kiss her.

She'd come on the motor and easily evade Pratt, who was always content to wait in the Moulton village square for her without question. She'd come on the cart sometimes, when Lynch could be convinced that she could manage on her own. And she'd come on her horse, her cheeks pink from the sting of the wind on her face.

Two hunting parties came dangerously close to finding him, but he'd grown adept at making the shed look like it was abandoned though it was the only home he knew.

The following spring, using his mother's father's name, James Connelly, he began working in a small mechanic's shop in Moulton. He'd sometimes hear gossip about the convalescent home at Downton Abbey, but he knew to keep his head down. The man he worked for was a kind and understanding Scot, who never asked why a young, fit man was not on a battlefield in Europe. A father of four, he'd lost his oldest to a war he did not understand and would not judge anyone who did not want to meet the same fate. It was obvious to him that Tom's skills were not those of a lad who'd grown up alone and penniless. After a month, he offered Tom a room above the garage.

Tom was hesitant about leaving the refuge he and Sybil had made for him, but she encouraged him to take the help, her generous heart, as always, believing the best in people. And she'd been right.

The night Tom showed up at the garage with all of his belongings in two suitcases given to him by Sybil, it was empty. He walked up to the room where he was to make his new home and smiled, with a happy sigh, as he laid down on the small bed. When he put his head on the pillow, he felt something underneath it. Lifting the pillow, Tom saw a sheet of paper.

It was the fallen son's birth certificate.

It was a way out.

Neither man acknowledged what had passed between them.

When Tom had earned enough, he paid for passage to New York. The garage owner was not surprised to see him go.

Leaving her wasn't easy, for he knew he could never return, but promises were made, hushed but full of hope.

Years later, when the war finally came to an end, she joined him there. It was in defiance of her parents' wishes, but with the support of her American grandmother, who had always been her favorite and who always found a way to help them.

It wasn't a cottage on the beaches of Ireland. It was a small three-bedroom flat on the south end of Manhattan Island, above a Jewish bakery, where they woke to the smell of fresh bread and bagels every morning. Where they were surrounded by artists and bohemians who lived life as fully as they intended to.

Where their children grew up.

Where the neighbors knew them as Mr. and Mrs. John Murray.

Where only she ever called him Tom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially wrote this story as a one-shot, but I went back later and filled in some of the details that the first one only alludes to.

Moving to Moulton under an assumed name to live above his employer's garage was a welcome change for Tom after half a year hidden away in a small drafty cabin in the woods. But the cabin had afforded him and Sybil a privacy that would be near impossible to come by in town, a fact they realized on the day he was set to leave the cabin as they tried to settle on a regular meeting place closer to the garage where he'd now be living. Eventually, they agreed to meet at a park near the edge of town, far enough away from Pratt that Sybil could continue to evade him once he'd dropped her off to do her "charity work," but not so far that it was difficult for Tom, who was now working every hour he could, to get away easily. They decided to put off the meeting three weeks so as not to draw attention to the fact that this solitary squatter had somewhere to be or someone to see.

So it was that when they met, Tom was full of news, and Sybil could see it in his quick step and happily anxious demeanor when she spotted him.

"I have something to show you," he said by way of a greeting.

Sybil threw her arms around his neck as he sat down next to where she was sitting, on a bench next to a blossoming, shady tree. "I can't believe it's been almost a month."

Tom pulled back smiling happily. Unable to do much about grooming them during his time in the woods, Tom's hair was past his ears now and his beard was thick. He'd decided to keep them while he remained in Moulton to help obscure his features. Sybil could already tell that he was gaining back some of the weight that he'd lost. He was wearing a humble suit that Sybil suspected had been purchased second hand or been given to him by his employer. He looked, in several ways, like a new person, which served their purpose, but she could still recognize the man she loved behind it all.

"You look so well!" She said.

"And you, as always," he replied, leaning in for a soft kiss.

Sybil sighed into the kiss, short and sweet. "So what do you have to tell me?"

"Show you," Tom repeated, pulling back and digging out a folded up piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

He handed it to Sybil, who unfolded it carefully and began inspecting it.

_Births and Deaths Registration Act of 1874_

_CERTIFICATE OF REGISTRY OF BIRTH_

_I, the undersigned, do hereby certify that the birth of John Michael Murray, born on the 5th day of January, one thousand eight hundred and ninety, has been duly registered by me at Entry No. 2172 of my register book No. 75._

_Witness my hand, this tenth day of February 1890,_

_John J. Simpson, Registrar of Births and Deaths_

_District Belper, Sub-District Alfreton_

_NOTICE_

_This Certificate when duly filled up by the Registrar, is to be given (on demand) to the Informant at the time of Registering the Birth on payment of a fee not exceeding Three-pence. (See Births and Deaths Registration Act of 1874, Section 30.)_

Sybil looked back at Tom curiously. "Who is John Michael Murray?"

"Mr. Murray's first son. He died in Arras last year. Belper is in Derbyshire—that's where Mrs. Murray is from and where they lived before settling here after their second son's birth. Mr. Murray told me when he shared how he ended up in Yorkshire after I first started working for him."

Sybil remained confused. "But why did Mr. Murray give this to you?"

"So I could have a name . . . one to trade on, on my own. Not here, of course, but anywhere else."

Sybil looked down at the paper once more and then gasped as it dawned on her. She looked back at Tom with wide-open eyes. "You could leave the country!"

Tom nodded. "I reckon it will be enough to get me on a boat to Ellis Island. When I get there, I'll have a bit of money saved and a useful trade to offer. Cousins of mine have arrived with less and been allowed to stay. The only thing stopping me before—"

"Was the ability to leave undetected," Sybil finished for him, excitedly. "With this, you can!"

Sybil threw her arms around him again. After a long moment, Tom pulled away and held Sybil's face in his hands. "You did this, love. I couldn't begin to tell you what it means to me."

Sybil smiled and felt tears prick the back of her eyes. "You're the survivor, not me. You're the one who's endured the worst to stand by your principles."

"But I'd never have taken that job if you hadn't seen the posting in town. I'd never have lasted alone in the woods on my own. Let's face it, if you hadn't come to the cottage that night, before I was to leave Downton, I'd likely be dead. You saved me, Sybil."

He leaned down to kiss her, and they remained locked in a tight embrace for several minutes. After, they settled back onto the bench, Sybil said with a sigh, "I wish I could come with you."

"You could," Tom said. "What's really keeping you here, anyway?"

"We couldn't risk it, Tom," Sybil said, shaking her head. "They may not understand your reasons like I do, but my family knows that you escaped to avoid fighting in the war. After the police came looking for you, when you didn't report, my father asked the Army to keep him informed if you were ever found. If we tell them about us now, before you leave, papa will know you're close by and may try to find you and turn you over to the authorities. It's best that you go on your own. When the war ends, we'll see how the dust settles."

Tom sighed. "I suppose you're right. But it'll be impossible to correspond, and for all we know, it may be years yet before it's over."

"I know, but we've gotten this far, haven't we? We'll find a way."

Tom nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat at the thought that once again, they'd have to put their future in fate's hands.

"In the mean time, you should start getting used to the name John Murray," Sybil said with watery eyes. "I dare say it suits you, even more than your grandfather's name does." She laughed softly and added, "Would you like me to start calling you John."

He took Sybil's in both of his. "Never. You shall always remain Tom Branson's guardian. I'll leave him here with you. I'll be John Murray in America and when we are together again, you shall bring Tom Branson with you. And we'll be together as we've always planned. Will you?"

A small tear fell down Sybil's cheek, but she was smiling. "I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per the show's time period, Tom gets his papers in July of 1917, which means that he's in hiding in the woods that fall and winter. He goes to Moulton using his grandfather's name early 1918, and this moment, their goodbye before he leaves for America takes place in July of 1918, so he's been a fugitive with Sybil's help for one year. The war, as we know, officially ends in November 1918, but Sybil won't be joining Tom in America for another couple of years. 

Sitting on the same park bench where he'd been meeting her regularly for the last few months, Tom couldn't help but fidget with the handle of the suitcase that he'd set at his feet. It was old, of faded light brown leather and had once belonged to Lord Grantham himself. Sybil had found it in the Downton attic and asked her father if she could donate it to one of her charity cases.

_Was I lying?_ Sybil had said, cheekily when she'd handed it off to Tom.

Tom smiled at the thought of Robert as an unwitting accomplice in Tom's now one-year effort to evade the authorities who'd wanted to send him off to war and his likely death against his will and against his political beliefs.

That morning, as he dressed and gathered what little he had to call his own, still hours before the sun would rise, he considered leaving the case behind. What good would it do to have any mementos of his past life as he entered his new one? What did John Michael Murray want with anything that had to do with Downton Abbey? But he took the case anyway, packed with his only other suit, two sets of work clothes and a smattering of personal effects like the rosary his mother had given him when he'd gone from Ireland to work in service.

He wanted to look like someone with somewhere to go, not merely like the shameful vagrant that he sometimes felt he was. He also knew that it was useless to try to divorce himself from what he'd be leaving behind here entirely. On the ship and in America, Sybil would be ever present in his thoughts—what greater tie was there to his past than the woman he loved? Even if he never saw her again, she always would be in his heart. She'd saved him so many times over, he wondered even now whether he'd survive in the States without her.

From the moment that he'd secured his passage, they had not talked about how they'd communicate when he'd gone, nor of this moment— _goodbye_ —and now that it was upon them, Tom felt the anxiety would consume him. He had to go. Of that there was no doubt in either of their minds, but how could they go on? Would they?

When he finally spotted her walking toward him, she did not rush into his arms as she was wont to do. Instead, she walked slowly, deliberately, as if savoring this moment of seeing one another, knowing it might not come again. When she finally reached the bench, Tom, who'd been standing since she came into his view, took her hands into his and looked into her eyes. She'd been crying. The redness was slight, but he noticed it easily, having committed every aspect of her features to memory. Even so, however, her smile now was genuine, not strained or put upon, simply happy. She'd mourned the loss of him last night in the quiet of her room, but this morning she would only give him what he needed—hope.

"You look well," she said once they'd sat down again. "Ready to travel."

"As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose," he answered.

"I have parting gifts," she said opening the small bag she carried with her and taking out an envelope and a book.

Tom looked at the envelope first. It was addressed to a Mrs. Isidore Levinson.

"It's a letter to my grandmother, Martha Levinson. I want you to take it to her. I don't say anything about your situation, only that you're a friend. You can tell her as much or as little as you want about yourself. I suppose you can choose not to deliver it, but Grandmama is . . . different."

"You mean she's American."

Sybil smiled. "She is. She won't judge you. You don't have to take her help if you don't want to, though I'm sure she'll offer it. She has more money than she knows what to do with and couldn't care less about the trappings of class."

Tom looked at Sybil for a moment, then back at the letter.

"It's a way for me to know you're there and safe," she said. "She'll write me and let me know she's seen you."

Tom smiled. _She thinks of everything._

Then, Tom took the book.

"For reading on the journey."

Tom turned it over in his hands and saw the title, Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. He smiled. "The story of a fugitive."

"A righteous one like you," Sybil said.

"Does that that make your father Javert?"

Sybil laughed. "Papa gave up his fight to look for you after he'd barely started, so I should say not."

Tom sighed and looked down at the book again, smiling. "Thank you." He flipped through the pages with his thumb and came across what looked like a bookmark. He pulled it out and saw that it was a picture of Sybil tied with a red ribbon to which she had also secured a lock of her hair. Tom looked up and saw a trace of tears in her eyes again.

"A bit presumptuous perhaps but—"

Tom cut her off, taking her face in his hands and kissing her fiercely.

"We will meet again," he whispered into her lips. "No matter if I have to swim back across the Atlantic to do it."

"Only halfway, for I'll meet you in the middle."

They laughed and kissed again, until Tom pulled away to take something from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"This is for you."

Sybil took the worn journal into her hands, recognizing it immediately. It was the same one that she had given him long ago when he was still in hiding in the woods. She went to open it, but Tom stopped her.

"Don't read it now. It's . . . when you gave it to me, you said writing in it would help me pass the time when I was alone in the woods. You were right. Often, for lack of a topic, I'd write to you."

"Tom . . ." Sybil's voice cracked.

"We will meet again," he repeated, tears now pooling in his eyes. "And when we do meet, I'll ask you to marry me."

Sybil laughed through her tears. "And I'll say yes."


	4. Chapter 4

"Mam?"

"Yes, Corrigan?" Martha Levinson looked up from the letter she was reading at her desk in the study as her butler approached.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a young man at the door who gave me a letter he says is from your granddaughter."

"From my granddaughter? Who could it be?"

"Neatly dressed, Irish by the sound of him," the butler said.

Martha looked at her butler puzzled. "And the letter?"

"I have it here," the butler said, stepping forward and handing it to Martha. "He didn't ask to hand deliver it, but he did insist on staying until I could at least confirm to him that you had read it."

"So where is he now?"

"Waiting outside. He was polite, didn't ask to be invited in. To be honest mam, he looks like a good and honest young fellow, nothing untoward about his appearance. Nevertheless, you never know what scheme he might be planning."

"Indeed," Martha said distractedly, staring at the envelope in her hand. She recognized Sybil's handwriting on the envelope easily. Whoever the young man was, Martha was sure what she held in her hand was legitimate. She opened the letter, and scanned it quickly.

"Well, now the letter's in your hands, mam, I'll let him know so he can get going." Corrigan stepped away, but Martha's voice stopped him.

"Wait, Corrigan." Martha hesitated. "Invite him in. I'll meet him in the foyer downstairs."

"But mam—"

"It'll be all right."

Martha smiled at the old man's reluctance, but he went on. Martha looked down at Sybil's letter again. Going by the date, it had been written three months earlier.

Martha sat back down to read.

_Dearest grandmama,_

_I'll not bother with pleasantries or any of the latest news from Downton—not much new to share about life here in any case. I am sure what you are most interested in learning about is the man I've asked to deliver this letter. If I know him, he'll not ask to meet you, but will do enough to ensure that this letter reaches your hands, which will likely be enough to spark your curiosity._

_But, alas, if your curiosity is to be satisfied, you must speak with him yourself. To say much more about him than he is very dear to me would betray years' worth of confidences. I don't know how much or how little he will choose to reveal about who he is, how he knows me or what set him at your doorstep, but please be assured that he is someone I would trust with my life._

_Whatever you two may speak of, all I ask now is that you write to me to let me know that you received this letter. That will suffice to tell me that he has arrived in America safely and has begun to make a life for himself there. If you wonder now why he can't write to me himself, well . . . once, when I said that I did not like deceit, you told me that every girl, no matter how good she is, keeps secrets from her parents._

_You were right._

_With deepest love, your granddaughter,_

_SPC_

**xxx**

Tom had sat down on a small bench just inside the door, but even from there he could see some of the grandeur of the 5th Avenue townhome. By comparison to Downton, the house was small, but it held a prominent position on the corner of 5th Avenue and 57th Street. There was no doubting, by anyone who approached it, that money lived here. He hadn't been waiting longer than ten minutes when he heard steps. He would have expected the butler again, but even before he laid eyes on her, the clickety-clack of the marble floor suggested a lighter step, so he wasn't totally unprepared when Martha herself came into view.

She was slightly smaller than the Dowager Countess, with a bright shock of red hair and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes to match. Tom liked the look of her right away and felt his shoulders relax and she stepped up to him with extended hand.

"Hello, mister . . . . well, golly, I've just now realized that Sybil's letter didn't say what your name was."

Tom smiled, knowing that this had been deliberate. Sybil was giving him a chance to introduce himself as he chose. He extended his hand and shook Martha's. "John Murray, at your service," he said. The name now rolled off his tongue like he'd been born with it.

Martha held on to his hand and looked him up and down on both sides. "Murray . . . interesting . . . well, you're handsome. I can see why you caught her eye."

Tom laughed uneasily. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Levinson. Lady Sybil spoke very highly of you."

"She's the only Crawley who would," she said with a wink and a smile. "How long have you been here?"

"If you mean here in America, about three months," Tom said.

"What took you so long?"

"Pardon me?"

Martha lifted up the letter. "Sybil's note—it's dated July. You've been here all this time and you're only now bringing me this?"

Tom hesitated. He hadn't prepared for much questioning, beyond common pleasantries.

Martha noticed his sudden nerves. "Don't worry Mr. Murray, I don't bite."

Tom chuckled. "I didn't know whether I'd have the chance to meet you when I came here to bring the letter . . . I suppose I wanted to be ready in case I did to give a good impression, so I took the time to get settled first."

"Good, and how have you settled?"

"Very well. I have family in Boston, so I went there first for a few weeks, but it was always my intention to come back to New York."

"Oh, and why is that?"

_Because Sybil would want to be in New York._ He didn't say the words aloud, but they'd been on the tip of his tongue. Martha smiled at his hesitation as if she could have read his mind in that moment.

"I guess this just seemed like the place to be," he said. "Anyway, I found a job at a car dealership as a mechanic—a connection of a cousin of mine's."

"Is there a future in it?"

Tom frowned slightly. Her line of question was rather puzzling, but he answered anyway. "I imagine there is—there seems to be a greater demand for automobiles here than there was in England—but I don't know if that's _my_ future. Not yet. Anyway, it's a place to start."

"So you have some ambition! I like it. And where are you living?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Mrs. Levinson, I hate to be rude, but may I ask—"

"Why I'm asking so many questions?" Martha finished for him.

Tom nodded. "I hope you don't think I'm here for a handout of some kind."

"What are you here for?"

"I don't want to make trouble for Sybil, but I want her to know I've made it here. I'm afraid coming to see you was the only way."

"Oh, honey, if we're talking about Robert and Violet and avoiding trouble, you've come to the wrong place. They look at me and all they see is trouble." Martha laughed, and Tom did right along with her. Her ease of manner was so different from everyone else in Sybil's family, it seemed difficult to reconcile that Martha was related to them in anyway. But in her easygoing, open manner, he could see a bit of the somethings that made Sybil who she was.

Martha spoke again. "I would think my interest in you is obvious, Mr. Murray, but then again men aren't keyed into the subtlety of this type of thing."

"What type of thing?" Tom asked.

"Courting."

"Pardon me?"

Martha laughed. "Oh, Mr. Murray, I can guess that there's something between you and my granddaughter, and it must be something my daughter and that earl of hers are going to object to if you're going to such trouble to communicate undetected. That suggests that Sybil's going to have a fight on her hands. I'm just making sure you're worth her effort."

Tom fidgeted with his hat and blushed slightly as she spoke.

"Am I wrong?" She prodded.

"No," Tom said quietly. The looked down for a moment and then said, "Henry Street . . . to answer your question. I've got a flat with three other lads."

Martha smiled. "My husband used to take me to Seward Park when we were a young couple," she said, wistfully. "He hadn't lived on the Lower East Side for years by the time we met, but to his death he never really left it."

It was Tom's turn to smile.

"Not many Irish down there," Martha added.

"I took what I could find," Tom said. "And anyway, I came here to expand my horizons."

"Good boy," Martha said with a smile.

A long moment passed in which neither said anything more, though Tom could see in Martha's eyes that she was formulating an opinion of him.

"Well, now you've got Sybil's letter, I should be along," Tom said, putting his hat back on.

"If you must, but let me give you something before you go." Martha walked off, leaving Tom to wonder what she could possibly have to give him.

When she returned, almost twenty minutes had gone by. She approached Tom again holding a stack of envelopes and a card. The handed him the latter first.

"Mr. Philip Markham manages my business affairs. I still own several buildings on the Lower East Side. He'll set you up in an apartment. Don't worry about the rent—I insist!"

"But Mrs. Levinson—"

"I'll let him know to expect your call."

"Mrs. Levinson, I can't—"

"Fine, tell him that in return, you can do handy-work in the building when something needs fixing. We go through building superintendents like nobody's business. It's not a full-time job, but if it gets to be too much with your other work, let me know. Can you handle that?"

Overwhelmed, Tom wasn't sure what to say. "I . . .uh, sure. Yes, I can."

Martha smiled. "Now here," she said handing him the envelopes.

Tom looked the envelopes over and realized they were empty, but they'd been addressed—to Sybil. His eyes snapped up at Martha, realizing what she had just given him.

She smirked. "If you're so eager for her to know you're here, tell her yourself. Keep in mind that I don't write to her all that often, only every few months. In case you don't want to raise suspicions."

Tom smiled widely, not bothering to hide how happy this particular gift had made him. Martha smiled too, but her expression—so pleased with herself—gave him pause.

_I'm just making sure you're worth her effort._

"Mrs. Levinson, I appreciate your help, and your support for Sybil, but if I'm going to accept it you need to know how Sybil and I met. I've told you about my present life here, but not my past one, and if you're really eager to save her from—"

Martha tried to interrupt. "Mr. Murray—"

"Branson. That's my real name."

Martha's brow furrowed. The name rung a bell, and she stood quietly as she thought back to letter upon letter from her daughter, sharing the news and gossip from the estate during the early years of the war.

_. . . our chauffeur has left us too, though not to fight. We just found out that he ran away to avoid conscription. Robert was beside himself with anger. I said I understood why he might do such a thing, but of course, Robert would have none of it. Branson was a nice young man, but political. For his mother's sake if no one else's I hope authorities go easy on him when he is caught . . ._

"I was—"

"Nevermind, Mr. Murray," Martha said, quickly cutting him off.

"But—"

"Over there, they spend so much time thinking about the past, they tend to get stuck in it. I'm not that kind of person. Are you?"

Tom smiled. "No."

"Then, you've said all you need to say."

He looked down at what she'd given him again. "What do I do when I've run out of envelopes?" he asked.

"There are six there. If you haven't managed to convince her to follow you here by the time you get to the last one, you probably aren't going to convince her."

"I don't know what to say," Tom said, looking at the woman in awe.

"Say you'll be good to her."

**xxx**

Tom wrote to Sybil that very afternoon, and when she opened the letter (wisely having waited to do so alone, knowing that it would bring news of Tom from her grandmother), she nearly fainted of happiness when she saw Tom's own words. Martha herself sent another letter a month after, recounting her meeting him and letting Sybil know about the help she'd offered him.

Martha closed her letter with, _We're both here waiting for you, darling granddaughter, whenever you are ready to join us._


	5. Chapter 5

**March 1920**

Mary had been sitting on the bench in the garden for only a few minutes when she saw Sybil and Edith coming up the path. She wondered if they were on a walk, but when they spotted her, she could see that finding her had been their intention. Indeed, they were walking right to her, and with purpose. With her wedding to Matthew now fast approaching and her American grandmother due to arrive the next day, Mary had hardly had a moment's peace in the last month. This would be another in which she'd not have it.

Sybil was wringing her hands as she walked, and Mary wondered what exactly her two younger sisters were coming to see her about.

"There you are," Sybil said when they finally reached Mary. Mary could sense a nervousness in her voice.

"She has something to tell us," Edith said. "And apparently, it's something we must hear together."

"This seems rather formal," Mary said, "shall I stand?"

"No, sit," Sybil said, waving her down. "In fact, you both should," she added signaling to Edith that she take the space on the bench next to Mary.

"Darling, what is it?" Mary asked. "You look like you're about to tell us someone died."

"Oh, it's not anything like that."

"Well, out with it, then!" Edith said.

Sybil stopped her pacing and stood in front of her sisters. She took a deep breath. "I'm going to America."

Edith and Mary looked at one another as if they'd missed something.

Mary spoke first. "Is that all? Darling, we know. Mama said weeks ago that you'd mentioned the idea of going to visit grandmamma this year."

Sybil looked down. "I told her that when grandmama came for your wedding, I wanted to go back with her."

"What's so grave about that?" Edith asked. "When you said you had important news to share with us, I was expecting something of a different nature entirely."

As Edith spoke, Mary's eyes narrowed, and when Edith had finished, Sybil looked up again and met her eldest sister's eyes. That was all it took for Mary to guess.

"You plan to go and not come back." It wasn't a question. Mary simply stated what she realized was the truth, even before Sybil confirmed it.

"What!?" Edith exclaimed, glancing back and forth between Mary and Sybil, who nodded in affirmation.

"Why?" Mary asked plainly, knowing deep down that there had to be a reason beyond wanting to get away from their parents and wanting to get away from a life that, since the war had ended, Mary could see was making Sybil more miserable by the day.

Sybil took another breath. "It's a long story—quite long—and I'd like to say it in its entirety before you ask me any questions." Both sisters nodded. "Do you remember Tom Branson?"

"Who?" Edith asked.

"The chauffeur who ran away," Mary answered, never taking her eyes off Sybil. "That was . . . almost three years ago."

"He taught you how to drive, Edith," Sybil said, quietly. "Don't you remember?"

Edith thought for a moment. "Oh, of course! How silly of me. What about him?"

"I . . . he . . . well, he felt strongly that conscription of the Irish was unjust. As a Republican, he considered Ireland a sovereign state and didn't recognize the authority of the king to order to send him to his certain death. I . . . I agreed with him. That is to say, I believed he was right to want to choose his own destiny. The war had hardly proven to be a righteous cause by then, and so many young men sacrificed life and limb. I didn't want him to have to go . . . I didn't want to lose another friend."

Mary felt a sense of unease begin to boil in her stomach. "Get to the point, please, Sybil."

"I'm sorry . . . I . . . anyway, he and I were friends. _Good_ friends. Actually, that's not quite true. The long and the short of it is that he proposed to me. Twice."

Both Mary and Edith gasped.

"The first time was when I went to my training in York. I gave him no answer. It took me aback, though I'd be lying if I said that I was entirely surprised by it. I _was_ . . . and I wasn't. That's fair to say. Anyway, when he got his papers, I agreed to help him hide from authorities."

"Sybil!" Mary exclaimed, standing.

"No, that's wrong. I _offered_ to help. Saying, 'I agreed' makes it sound as if he asked. He never did—in fact, I had to talk him into accepting my help. But I couldn't let anything happen to him."

"Where is he now?" Mary asked urgently.

Sybil swallowed. "New York."

"And you plan on joining him there?!" Edith asked.

Sybil nodded. "He proposed again when he left—or said he would if we saw one another again. I told him if he did I would say yes. That will be my intention when I see him again."

"Sybil, that's ridiculous," Mary said, turning away. "You're doing no such thing."

"I can imagine what you may think, Mary—"

"No, you can't imagine!" Mary snapped. "And you certainly haven't bothered _imagining_ how mama and papa will react. You've done some rash things in your life, but this, Sybil? This is beyond the pale!"

"Do you know what's ridiculous?" Sybil snapped back. "Being told that despite possessing an in-demand skill I developed over two years that I can no longer work! Being told that I can have no opinions but those of the man I eventually marry! Sitting day in and day out in that drawing room twiddling my thumbs when there is so much in the world that needs doing!"

"And running into the arms of a fugitive is going to help all that, is it?" Mary pressed.

"I don't expect you or anyone to understand what Tom did or why I helped him. Anyway, I'm not asking anyone's permission to go. I'm _telling_ you."

"Sybil, papa is not going to let you go," Edith said. "Certainly not when he finds out where you're going, and with whom."

"I know," Sybil said with a sigh.

"You are going to tell him, aren't you?" Mary asked.

"I am, but not until just before I go. I don't want to spend the last days I have here wasting my breath on a useless argument. I'm telling you both now because you'll be gone on your honeymoon when the time comes." Sybil directed her last words at Mary, who'd gone from angry to something else. "Look, I know this seems rash, but I've had three years to think about it."

"Why _have_ you waited this long?" Edith asked quietly. Exchanging a look with Mary she said. "If . . . if you were sure you loved him and wanted to do this, wouldn't you have just gone with him? Or joined him sooner?"

"He had to leave on his own, otherwise he might have been caught, and I didn't want to risk that. I told myself that I'd wait for the end of the war, and when it did it was November, so I thought . . . well, I know that when I tell papa my intensions he may well banish me forever. When the war ended and December so near, I suppose I wanted to spend another Christmas with my family. Then mama fell ill, and I didn't want to leave until she was fully herself. Then, you were to be married to Sir Richard, Mary, so I thought I'd stay for that. Then another Christmas came and went and took Sir Richard with it. I'd be lying if I said that I haven't had doubts. I don't want to be cast out from my family or be estranged from you forever."

"So then stay," Mary said, taking Sybil's hand. "You can't uproot your life like this just for some young man you helped once."

"I'm not," Sybil said firmly. "I'm doing it for _me_. This isn't the life I was meant to lead—I _know_ there's something more out there. I will regret not being close to you anymore, but not more than I already regret every moment I am still here. "

"I can't believe it," Edith said, her voice cracking. "I can't believe you'll be so far away."

"Will you visit?" Sybil's voice sounded like a plea and her eyes began to water. "Please do, no matter what papa says."

"Of course, darling," Mary stepped forward and pulled Sybil into her arms. "And if you're anything short of sublimely happy when we do, we're bringing you back."

Sybil laughed into Mary's shoulder, then stepped away and hugged Edith. "Fair enough."

"Does Branson know you're coming?" Edith asked. "Have you kept in touch?"

"We have. He's written me six letters since he left—the last at Christmas. I wrote to him just after the servants ball. I already had it in my mind that I'd be leaving here soon, but I didn't say . . . I suppose I didn't want to tempt fate."

"But if he doesn't know, won't you write to him now that you're sure?" Edith asked.

Sybil shook her head with a smile. "I just want to get there, then whatever may come will come."

Edith's brow furrowed. "But, Sybil, what if you get there and he—"

"Doesn't want to see me?" Sybil shrugged. "Like I said, I'm going for _me_."

Edith smiled and took Sybil's hand to squeeze it.

"You say he's written you six letters. How?" Mary asked.

Sybil blushed slightly. "Grandmama gave him a stack of envelopes addressed to me."

"She knows!" Edith gasped.

"Of course, it wouldn't have worked otherwise," Sybil replied. "You know how she is. Me running away with a conscientious objector from the war? She positively delights in it."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Poor papa—he won't know what hit him, and he'll take her meddling as a personal affront."

"Poor _mama_ ," Edith put in. "She's the one who'll bear the brunt of his ire."

"Poor indeed," Sybil said sarcastically. "Grandmama's money is the reason they still have this house."

"A sore point that you should likely _not_ bring up to papa when it all goes down." Mary said with a smirk. She sighed and added, "I wish I could be here when you tell them. For support."

"I'll be alright," Sybil said smiling again.

And she was.

There was a fight, of course, a big one. But once Martha arrived, and Sybil shared her intention to leave with her for good, Martha was determined not going to leave without her granddaughter. There was a great deal of concern over the scandal that Robert was sure would ensue when it became known that Sybil escaped to America to marry a deserter, not to mention a former servant of the house. But, of course, Martha had an answer for that too.

"Who exactly is going to make it known? Are you going to put an ad in the newspaper?"

Cora rolled her eyes. "Mother don't be ridiculous!"

"The only people who would know who Sybil's young man really is are in this room," Martha said looking around at the gathered family. "Does anyone here plan on announcing it to the world?"

"It will get out," Robert insisted. "These kinds of things always do."

"Well, I don't care anyhow," Sybil said, getting tired of what she felt was becoming a circular argument. "Whether or not people outside of this house find out anything about my life once I leave makes absolutely no difference to me."

"I know, dear," Martha said taking Sybil's hand into hers. "All I'm saying is that there's no real reason for anyone to be worried about you marrying some man named Tom Branson, because you're not going to marry Tom Branson."

Cora sighed. "Mother—"

"Mr. _John Murray_ happens to an upstanding, middle class young man who happens to work for a successful car dealership in New York. He sold me the Ford I bought last year. It runs very well. His politics are . . . _interesting_ , but then he's idealistic—as I think all young men should be. When I introduced him to my visiting granddaughter, I do believe it was love at first sight. Her parents wanted her to marry a baron or something, but then Sybil was never one for the beaten path."

"No, she wasn't, was she?" Violet said, from her corner of the library. She walked over to Sybil and looked at her face closely, as if committing it to memory.

"Do you approve, granny?" Sybil asked.

"No, I don't," Violet replied, "but as you've said, that's beside the point."

Sybil smiled, knowing that her words represented acquiescence. If there was to be a continued family objection to Sybil leaving Downton, it would not be supported by Violet. Indeed, everyone in the room understood Violet in that moment, including Robert.

"Mama, you can't possibly believe that this is anything but youthful madness."

Violet turned to her son. "You're right. I can't. I do find it very foolish but . . . young girls have license to do foolish things in the name of love, adventure, and all those things they put in novels. You do not want Sybil made bitter by regret." There was a thickness in Violet's voice, as if she too had stood at the precipice of a stark choice between what was thought foolishness and life as she had known it.

"Mother, you really think Branson—" Cora stopped herself at the sharp look from her mother. "I'm sorry, Mr. _Murray_ , can take care of Sybil as she deserves?"

"I'm going to take care of myself!" Sybil cut in. "I understand your concern about Tom, but honestly, I won't make assumptions about what he wants. This is about me. All you have to decide to do is trust that I'll choose what will make me happy, even if it doesn't align with what you would choose for me."

Sybil looked at her father, who looked no longer angry, but beaten.

"And you're sure going to America is what will make you happy?"

Sybil beamed at him. "I am."

**xxx**

Later, Martha found herself alone with Violet in the parlor and asked a question that had lingered in her mind: "Where you ever a foolish young woman, Violet?"

"Heavens, no," was Violet's quick reply.

Martha smiled and looked away shaking her head, which didn't escape Violet's notice.

"The foolishness came later."

"Oh? Did you have a prince charming, Violet?"

Violet flinched. _Prince Kuragin_. "No, no prince. I had a husband and two children."

"And Sybil?"

"Sybil has greater room for error," Violet said standing. She moved to the doorway, and patted Martha on the shoulder as she passed her on her way out of the room. "And she has you, God help her."

**xxx**

**April 1920**

Martha walked past the room Sybil had moved into when they'd arrived only one day before and did a double take when she saw her granddaughter sitting at the vanity.

"What are you doing here?" Martha asked, stepping into the room. "I thought you'd left hours ago."

Sybil smiled sheepishly. "I'm just nervous."

"The last mile of the journey is always the hardest."

"What if—"

"Sybil, go," Martha said seriously.

"But I've just been taking it for granted that he even wants to see me."

"Sybil?"

"What if he's not home?"

"Sybil?"

Sybil sighed. "What?"

Martha smiled. "Go."

Martha leaned over the vanity and grabbed the small piece of paper onto which she'd written John Murray's address, which sat folded neatly as if Sybil hadn't even touched it. She handed the paper to Sybil and nodded her head toward the door.

"Life isn't going to live itself."

**xxx**

It added several blocks to his walk, but Tom always liked going through Seward Park on his way home. It had been raining rather persistently the last few days, so the grass looked more lush than usual for early April.

There was a bench at the east end of the park where Tom would sit on Sunday mornings to read the newspaper cover to cover. As he walked nearer to it, he noticed a woman sitting on it. She was looking away from him, and Tom smiled thinking that her profile was very like Sybil's. It had been two months since he had heard from her, almost four since he'd used the last envelope Mrs. Levinson had given him. Sybil's letter had given him no indication that she was going to stop writing, but neither did it suggest that she was any closer to deciding to cross the ocean to see him. Since the war had ended, a number of things had delayed her. Tom had never asked when or if she would come. He only clung to that long ago shared promise on the eve of his departure from England.

_I will ask you to marry me._

_I will say yes._

But there were days when he'd wonder whether the fear of losing her family—the same fear he knew had affected her view of things when he'd asked her the question in that archway in York a lifetime ago—would keep her at Downton forever, and away from the life he knew she deserved.

He was nearly across the park when he looked up again, in time to see the woman at the bench turn toward him.

He stopped in his tracks as their eyes met. Tom blinked several times.

She stood, grinned, then—as if the moment was getting the better of her too—she bit her lip and walked slowly in his direction.

Tom stayed rooted in his spot, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything except try to process the sight of Sybil Crawley walking in his direction.

She stopped three feet in front of him. "Hello."

Tom opened his mouth slightly, but no sound came out.

"I knocked on your door . . . you weren't home. Your neighbor, Mrs. Temple, saw me and said you like to walk through the park so . . ." She smiled again. "It's nice to see you, Tom."

The sound of his name broke him. He coughed out a half-laugh, half-sob, closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. "Is this really you?" he choked out. "Are you really here?"

Sybil laughed, even as tears formed in her eyes. She clung to him as if he might vanish if she let him go. "Yes, yes, it's me."

Tom pulled back to look into her eyes. He ran his fingers across her cheeks. "Oh, my love . . . can you say it again?"

Sybil laughed as he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead into hers.

"Tom. My darling, darling Tom."


End file.
